A 221B Thanksgiving
by kattrispotter
Summary: After the stressful events of Season 3, Mrs. Hudson decides a little thankfulness would do everyone some good. One-Shot, Slight MaryxJohn


"Isn't this an American custom?" Sherlock peered across the table at John through his goggles. John thought he looked more like an insect of some sort than like a scientist.

"Yes, it is, Sherlock." John's arms were crossed over the front of his jumper. His eyebrows were furrowed; Sherlock could tell that he was frustrated.

"Then why are we doing this?" Sherlock whined.

"Sherlock, please, you sound like a child." Mrs. Hudson poked her head from around the corner. "You boys should be the ones tidying up, you know. I'm not your housekeeper!"

"Well, this was your idea!" Sherlock snapped. John shot him a look.

"We really appreciate your help, Mrs. Hudson," he added, running a bit of damage control. The elderly woman nodded, looking pleased with herself.

"Why are we doing this?" Sherlock repeated his question, more firmly this time.

"Because Mrs. Hudson spent some years in Florida, and after the ordeal we've been through these last couple of months, she thought it would be a good idea."

"It's the middle of February! We just celebrated Christmas, now there's another holiday to take me away from my work?"

"I think we could all use a bit of thankfulness, dear," Mrs. Hudson explained from the flat's lounge.

"Being thankful is boring," Sherlock groaned. "It's a passing fad, something people acknowledge when reminded, then forget about for the rest of their miserable lives." He gestured violently at his equipment, sending John an accusatory glance. "And I have experiments to run!"

"You can play with your chemistry set later. Now clean it up, Molly and Mary will be here to start cooking soon."

Sherlock scowled. "Molly is rubbish at cooking anyway. I should be figuring out why Moriarty's face appeared on every screen in London, not sitting about doing American things."

John rolled his eyes, exasperated. "You weren't doing that anyway."

Sherlock drew himself up to his full height, looking quite indignant. "I was doing research."

"Sherlock, you were trying to see how long it would take a cryogenically frozen human ear to melt under the heat of a blowtorch." Sherlock gathered up his supplies, making a note about John's complete lack of respect for science in his notebook.

Within the hour, Molly and Mary had shown up at the flat. Molly and John exchanged shy glances; though their relationship was on the mend, their interactions were still filled with a pleasant awkwardness. Molly, meanwhile, went straight into the kitchen to begin stuffing the turkey.

"Why does it smell like burned flesh in here?" Molly inquired, glancing pointedly at Sherlock.

"You really should stop giving him spare parts," John muttered.

"It's not like he asks," Molly murmured under her breath, sounding as though she'd had the same conversation many times before. She probably had.

"Who else did you invite?" Sherlock asked suddenly, peering through the curtains at Baker Street below.

"Just a few people." John sidestepped the question.

"Would you like to explain to me why Mycroft and Lestrade are walking up our steps? Looking quite sure of themselves, I might add - and not at all like there's been a murder."

"Because Mycroft is your brother, and Lestrade is a work colleague!"

The tall man shrugged. "Lestrade is the goldfish that I annoy when I'm bored."

"I invited your family, too, but they're on holiday in Costa Rica."

"They are?" Sherlock made a face. "When did they leave?"

John gave him a look. "Last Wednesday."

The doorbell rang, and John called, "It's open!"

Mycroft and Lestrade entered the flat, and immediately Sherlock's face screwed up with disgust. "I'm surprised you made it up the stairs, Mycroft," he scowled.

"I've lost quite a bit of weight, brother," the man who held a small part in the British government responded dryly.

The doorbell rang yet again; this time, a rather scraggly bearded Anderson stepped inside.

"You invited Anderson too?" Sherlock snapped. John put his hands up as though Sherlock would hit him, though everyone in the flat new that Sherlock would never raise a hand against anyone who wasn't trying to kill him. It wasn't in his nature.

"He was convinced you were still alive when we all were sure you were dead. He's really turned himself around, you know," John added.

"Yes he has, now that he's lost his job," Sherlock retorted under his breath.

In no time, the flat was filled with delicious smells of turkey, stuffing, and a plethora of other foods, including some sort of pudding that looked quite flat, grey, and a bit like wet cement, though Molly swore up and down it was a family recipe and was supposed to look that way. Later on, everyone would admit it was delicious - and Molly would admit the pudding was supposed to have a rich, purple color, but something had gone wrong.

The small, makeshift family sat around in the living room. John sat in his overstuffed pink armchair, though he insisted it was more of a faded red, much to the amusement of Sherlock who, in turn, insisted that pink was originally a color that indicated manliness. Whether or not this was fact or simply to settle John's temper is still debated.

Sherlock, meanwhile, sat in his tall green one. Mary commented that the straight back mimicked Sherlock's own rigid posture; Sherlock thanked her for the compliment, and promised to make more of an effort to slouch in an attempt to look less like a meerkat, as Mycroft had once put it.

Mary, being pregnant, Mrs. Hudson, the proud owner of a bad hip, and Molly, not ailed in any way but still a woman who was as sweet as could be, were graciously granted the comfortable couch. Mrs. Hudson was glad that she wouldn't have to look at the abomination that was the wall behind said couch; Sherlock looked quite offended at this, saying the bright yellow smiley face punctuated with bullet holes added a homey feel to the flat. Lestrade suggested it was homely instead, in the way that the Americans used the word. Sherlock retorted that he liked the British version of the word much better, and kindly demanded that Lestrade leave the flat if he decided to find issues with it.

Mycroft, Lestrade, and Anderson found their places in chairs from the dining table, which was too laden with food to leave any room for eating. Not one of them complained that they were uncomfortable; they were good sports, over all, though they weren't commended for their behavior as none of the three were especially honored guests.

The time of the year was wrong, and the food wasn't quite right. The settings were less than ideal, and Sherlock would jump up at the sound of a siren, crossing the room with his long stride to grab his coat before one of the others took their turn to pull him back to the gathering. No, nothing at the 221 Baker Street Thanksgiving was what one would consider "perfect". But the people inside the flat had each other, and though Sherlock thought thankfulness got nothing done and was overall useless, he was quite thankful for all of them.


End file.
